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User blog:Squibstress/A Slant-Told Tale - Chapter 10
Title: A Slant-Told Tale Author: Squibstress Rating: MA Genre: Drama, romance Warning/s: Explicit sexual content; violence; abuse; alcoholism Published: 23/05/2017 Disclaimer: All characters, settings and other elements from the Harry Potter franchise belong to J. K. Rowling. Chapter Ten 2 July 1954 Minerva stifled a yawn as she watched her young student screw her face into a portrait of wrinkled concentration. She had been up with Malcolm half the night as the poor child suffered with an earache. The watered-down pain-relieving potion had only provided partial relief, and her attempts at basic diagnostic spells hadn’t revealed anything other than inflammation of his eardrum. They’d need to see a Healer if he didn’t improve in the next few hours. That would cost money, and it would make Gerald cross. Not that he begrudged his son the services of a Healer when the boy was sick, but the added strain of an unforeseen expense made him tense, and a tense Gerald was a testy Gerald. She could always withhold the money from her earnings for the week, she supposed, but that would leave the household account short. She made a quick mental inventory of what was in the larder and decided that another week of Welsh rarebit might be in order. Gerald would grouse, of course, but he’d quiet down when she explained that the alternative was to take the difference from the pocket money she gave him every week. If Malcolm’s earache didn’t go away today, that was. Turning her attention back to her pupil, she said, “Mam’selle Bonaccord, try to relax your face. The energy you expend in tensing your muscles should be focussed on sending your intention through your wand. Try it again.” The girl took a deep breath, pointed her wand at the matchstick, and spoke the incantation. As Minerva could have predicted, nothing happened. “I think you are still too tense. Tell me, Mam’selle Bonaccord, is there something especially troubling you?” Minerva was dismayed when the child burst into tears. She quickly conjured a handkerchief and sat the girl down in one of the chairs flanking the room, Summoning another beside it for herself. “Marguerite, can you tell me what’s troubling you? I’d like to help if I can.” Taking the handkerchief and dabbing at her eyes and nose, Marguerite said, “Je m’excuse, madame—I am sorry. I want very much to susee … succeed in my studies. It is so important that I be permitted to continue at Beauxbatons. My parents will be so unhappy if I am … comment dit-on ‘expulsée’ en Anglais?” “Expelled.” “Yes, expelled. Everyone will say I am a Sansmagie, and my family will be so ashamed.” The poor child. No twelve-year-old should be subjected to such pressure, Minerva thought. And it was true; Marguerite Bonaccord was so magically weak as to be nearly a Squib. But there was magic there, which was why she had been accepted at Beauxbatons and why her parents were spending many Livres on tutoring in various magical subjects. The Bonaccords were a very old, very important magical family of Norman-French, and Marguerite was a direct descendant of Pierre Bonaccord, first Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation. Her grandfather still held the family’s honorary seat there. It might be better if she were a Squib. As shamefully as Squibs were treated, at least then Marguerite might be permitted to integrate into Muggle society rather than endure the pressures that came with her current station—pressures with which Minerva was all too familiar. As a witch of a prominent family, it was almost essential that the girl demonstrate adequate magical power. If Marguerite was unable to complete her Bac-magie, not only would she have no prospects for employment, but she would be unable to make a good marriage, as fear of having Squib children ran high in magical society. Her parents would continue to support her in all likelihood, but aside from her lack of magical prowess, Marguerite Bonaccord was a bright and inquisitive girl, and Minerva hated to think of her mouldering away on the sidelines of magical society without an occupation or even a family of her own to occupy her mind. “Well, we shall work very hard to ensure you are not expelled,” said Minerva. “I fear it is no use. I am horrible at magic,” said the girl. “Magic does not come easily to you, that’s true,” said Minerva. “But you are improving.” The girl sniffled a bit, and Minerva continued, “And, you know, Marguerite, there are other things besides magic. You are very, very good at languages. In the six months we’ve been working together, your English has become almost impeccable. And I understand from Master Rosetti that your Italian is excellent too.” “Did he really say that?” Marguerite asked, looking up at Minerva with watery eyes. “Oh, yes.” Marguerite gave the first smile Minerva had seen from her in weeks. “I like to learn new languages.” “That’s a marvellous skill that not many witches and wizards possess,” said Minerva. “Tell me, is there anything else you especially like to do that you think you may be good at?” “Well …” said Marguerite, “I do like to sing.” “That’s wonderful. Do you study music?” “Yes, madame. My father promised that if I got through all my classes with acceptable marks last year, I could take lessons. That is another reason I need to succeed in my classes next year. I do not want to stop singing lessons.” “Then we should get back to work,” said Minerva, and the girl nodded. An idea suddenly occurred to Minerva. “Marguerite, perhaps it might help you to relax and focus if you were to sing while you attempt the Transfiguration.” “Sing, madame?” “Yes. Why not try it?” “What should I sing?” “Something you know well. Something you like.” Marguerite thought for a moment, then said, “This spring we worked on Vecquerlin—I did ‘Jeunes filletes’.” “Excellent. Let’s try that. Why don’t you begin the song, then when you feel comfortable, switch your focus to your intention and your wand and try the Transfiguration.” Minerva watched as Marguerite took a few breaths and began to sing: “Jeunes fillettes, profitez du temps. La violette se cueille au primptemps. La la la rirette, la ri lon lan la …” Marguerite’s voice was clear, sweet, and remarkably strong. Minerva watched with fascination as the girl’s countenance seemed to relax and open up as she sang the old song. As she began the second verse, Marguerite raised her wand, and a moment later, spoke the incantation—or rather, sang it—and suddenly, the matchstick became a needle. “Brava! You did it, Mam’selle Bonaccord! See?” The girl’s face changed to a tableau of wonder. “I did!” She threw her arms around Minerva suddenly. “Oh, thank you, Madame Macnair!” “No need for thanks, mam’selle; you did it yourself. I simply suggested a method to focus your energy,” said Minerva as she hugged back rather stiffly. When Marguerite released her, Minerva said, “You have a truly remarkable voice, Mam’selle Bonaccord. I hope you will continue with your music studies. Will you sing the entire song for me now? I’d like to hear it.” Marguerite beamed at her teacher, and bobbing a quick curtsey, she said, “It would be my pleasure, madame, if you really want to hear it.” “I do.” Both teacher and pupil left the day’s lesson in good spirits. Minerva’s lasted until she went to check on Malcolm and found that he was still in pain. “Has he had more pain potion?” Minerva asked Elgar. The loyal elf was twisting his hands wretchedly, “Yes, Mistress. I is giving him two tablespoonfuls an hour ago, but Master Malcolm is still having pain. Elgar is very sorry, Mistress.” “It’s all right, Elgar,” Minerva said. “You’ve done your best.” She took the warm compress from him and sat down beside her son. “Does it still hurt so terribly, love?” “Yes, Mummy.” “Do the compresses help at all?” “A little,” the boy said miserably. Minerva applied the compress to his ear and summoned Elgar over. “Elgar, will you please go to Healer Lefebre’s and ask him to come as soon as he’s able? You can tell him Master Malcolm has been having ear pain for two days.” “Yes, Mistress,” the elf said and popped away. Two hours later, Malcolm was happily laughing as he read aloud to Minerva from his well-loved copy of The Phoenix and the Carpet. The relief that Minerva felt nearly evaporated when she heard Gerald come in from the hallway. “Well, you seem much better, Malcolm,” he said, stepping in and kissing Minerva quickly on the top of the head. “Oh, I am, Father. Healer Lefebre gave me some potion that tasted awful! But it made me feel better.” Minerva didn’t fail to see the cloud that passed over Gerald’s features. “That’s fine, son,” he said, ruffling the boy’s curly hair. Minerva stood and said, “If you’ll sit with Malcolm, I’ll help Elgar get dinner on the table.” “Yes, fine,” Gerald answered, as though he were far away. Gerald said nothing about the meagre meal of toast and cheese sauce that graced their plates that evening, but Minerva could see by his expression that he was tense. Once Malcolm had gone off for his bath, Gerald turned to Minerva. “How much did Lefebre charge?” “Three and six. Plus another eight Sous for the potion.” When she saw Gerald’s frown, she said, “He needed the medicine, Gerald.” “Did I say otherwise?” he snapped back. She said nothing in response, but she was angry with herself for allowing him to put her on the defensive. He surprised her then by putting his hand in his robe pocket and drawing out the leather pouch in which he kept his money, withdrawing two gold Livres and several copper Sous. “Here,” he said, holding them out to Minerva. “This is what’s left from what you gave me yesterday.” “Thank you,” she said quietly, taking the coins. “Don’t thank me; it’s your money anyway,” he said, the undercurrent of resentment barely hidden. “It’s our money, Gerald.” “You earned it, didn’t you?” “Yes, but—” “Forget it, Minerva,” he said and stalked off up the stairs. Minerva watched him go for a moment, then went to clear the dinner things from the table. She was not surprised later that night when Gerald held her down, bruising her wrists, while he fucked her, as she had been the first time it had happened. For a time after they had moved to France, things had been good between them. Finally out from under his father’s thumb, and out of the reach of the Ministry officials who had been nosing around in his finances, Gerald had relaxed a bit. “A new start,” he had called the move, and for a time, Minerva had believed it was so. Gerald spent more time with her and Malcolm in the beginning, and he had even taken a hand in teaching the boy some of his letters and arithmetic. They lived quietly and simply in their rented flat in Paris’s La Butte aux Cailles neighbourhood, with only Elgar, the McGonagall-family house-elf, for household help. Minerva had never had to learn much in the way of housekeeping, so she was glad of the help, but with Elgar’s assistance, she quickly mastered many household and domestic spells, as well as non-magical tasks required to keep the flat running. Even if she didn’t precisely enjoy it, she found she didn’t mind housework terribly, and she had managed to learn to prepare a few simple dishes. In the beginning, Elgar had often protested when Minerva took up the scrub brush or the saucepan, saying it was his duty as a house-elf to manage the cooking and housework, but Minerva gently reminded him that there were only so many hours in each day, and as Elgar spent many mornings and afternoons looking after and tutoring Malcolm so Minerva could take on pupils, it made practical sense for her to help with the housekeeping once she was finished with the day’s tutorials. It hadn’t taken long for Minerva to attract clients from France’s magical families; qualified Transfiguration masters and mistresses were rare as Basilisk’s teeth, and Griselda had written letters singing Minerva’s praises to her French colleagues, including the Transfiguration master of Beauxbatons, who had referred several students to her for additional lessons. From there, it had only been a matter of weeks before the wealthier of France’s wizarding families began to seek her services to help their failing progeny bring their skills up to snuff. Minerva had also had two apprentices and had mentored one student as he began the journey to become an Animagus. As much as she had enjoyed teaching these advanced students, she found that her true love was in helping struggling students become more confident and more proficient in the difficult art of Transfiguration. Her one regret was that between her busy roster of clients and tutoring her son, she had had little opportunity for research. But she needed all the clients she could manage. At first, Gerald had hoped he might secure a position managing a magical stable—Abraxan racing was even more popular in France than in Britain—but his lack of fluency in French was a stumbling block. Several months went by, then a year, without Gerald’s finding employment—then a year turned into several. Minerva never chid him for it, but Gerald clearly felt it. Moreover, given that Minerva could only tutor so many clients at one time, and that a goodly portion of her earnings went to pay off the creditors Gerald had left in his wake back home—creditors who could and would cross the Channel to see they were paid—money was perpetually tight. The activities that had formerly occupied Gerald’s free time—Abraxan training and racing, betting on same—now fell by the wayside of necessity. As time wore on, Gerald became sullen and withdrawn, snapping at Minerva, Elgar, and even Malcolm for the smallest of slights. Minerva began to encourage him to find friends, to go out—even if it cost them money—just to get him out from underfoot. Before long, he was disappearing afternoons and sometimes evenings, and Minerva had a suspicion that he was visiting brothels, as she knew he had done back in Scotland. She couldn’t bring herself to care, other than to resent the expense and the fact that she had to spend an extra twelve Sous every month for the potions that would protect her from any disease he might bring home. At first, she had also slipped some of the potion into his morning Pumpkin juice, but eventually she stopped. She reasoned that he might be taking care of that himself, and if he wasn’t, well … if he couldn’t be bothered to protect himself (or her) from the hazards of his carousing, then she wouldn’t either. It occasionally crossed her mind to wonder what kinds of services Gerald bought during his outings. She doubted it was plain sex, as he had that whenever he wanted it at home, and he still seemed to want it regularly. Once, in the early days of their life in Paris, when things were still good between them, she had tried to let him know that she would not be opposed to certain variations in their lovemaking. That evening, she had undressed completely and lay naked on the centre of their bed as she waited for Gerald to complete his evening ablutions. “Minerva?” he had said when he stopped, stunned, in the doorway from the bathroom. “Come over here, Gerald,” she had purred at him. He approached the bed warily, then sat. “Touch me,” she had told him, and opened her legs slightly to emphasise the point. “Minerva, I—” he had started, but shut his mouth when she had taken his hand and placed it on her breast. “Don’t you want to, Gerald? Doesn’t it feel nice?” she asked as his hand began to tentatively squeeze and knead. “Minerva …” was all he could seem to manage, so she had leant up and kissed his mouth, and then encouraged him to bend his head to her breast. He had taken her nipple between his lips then, and began to suck at it with increasing ardour, his other hand at her other breast. It had felt so wonderful to be touched like that after so long, and Minerva was lost in the sensation. After a few minutes, she had moved her hands to begin unbuttoning his pyjama shirt, and he didn’t protest, even moving his arms to allow her to push the garment off his shoulders. She ran her palms over his bare chest as he licked and sucked at her breasts. She had been exquisitely excited when he moved off her long enough to untie and push his pyjama bottoms down and off, and she took the opportunity to pin him to the mattress, kissing and licking her way down his body. When her lips met the head of his penis, he moaned deeply, and began to thrust. She closed a fist around the base of him to control his movements and began to move her tongue around his shaft, finally closing her lips around it and taking its length into her mouth. She had never sucked a cock before, but she found she didn’t mind it at all. It was rather exciting, she thought, to have him at her mercy and to make him moan and gasp as he was doing. Maybe, she had mused, she could someday persuade him to return the favour, remembering how incredible it had felt when Albus had put his mouth on her sex. Suddenly, Gerald had pushed at her shoulders, and she thought she had hurt him somehow, so she released his cock and sat up. He had sat up, too, saying, “Gods, Minerva … what are you doing?” She had looked at him, perplexed. “I thought you—” “You’re my wife, not some whore.” “No, it’s all right, Gerald, I didn’t—” “No, it’s not.” His voice had softened then, and he began to stroke her hair. “I’m sorry, Minerva. I couldn’t help myself when you started to … I shouldn’t have. You’re my wife.” Minerva had been confused. He had seemed both angry and apologetic. “Gerald, really … I didn’t mind. I liked it.” “Shhh,” he had said, putting his hand to her lips to silence her. With his other hand, he had pushed her gently down against the mattress and climbed on top of her, parting her thighs with his knees, and proceeded to fuck her in precisely the same way he had done since their wedding night, the only difference being that this time, it took him less than a minute to finish and roll off of her. He had then extinguished the light, kissed her forehead, and turned over to go to sleep. It had been about a year after that that Gerald had begun to go out in the evening. He would return late, often drunk, and would sleep late into the next morning. The only change to their sex life was that in periods in which his pocket money was too scant to allow him his evenings out, he had begun to hold her down painfully as he fucked her. Minerva never complained, nor did she ever try again to make any changes to their sexual encounters. She carefully filed away her memories of the one time she had received pleasure at a man’s hand, in order to focus on the task of survival. ← Back to Chapter 9 On to Chapter 11→ Chapters of Slant-Told Tale, A